


new, and a bit alarming

by thisismydesignn



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Library Sex, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10490502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: Belle's struggle with her feelings for the Beast, and ultimately getting to know her Prince in a way she'd never quite anticipated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This needs more to it, and perhaps one day I will manage to convince myself to write it. In the meantime...here is a bit of these two lovely people wanting to/having sex with one another.
> 
> Poem from Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite, based on [this](http://www.stoa.org/diotima/anthology/vandiver.shtml) translation. Credit to [Claire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bupkis/pseuds/Bupkis) for finding said translation - as she put it, we needed something originally written in Greek.
> 
> Title is, of course, from "Something There."

It’s been a long time since Belle has done this. She rarely felt the inclination while in the village, but there’s something in the way the Beast looks at her that sets her blood running hot, makes her crave— _more._

She can’t imagine touching him, nor him her; can’t imagine them _together_ like that, but as she grasps at the sheets she imagines she feels her fingers sinking into fur instead.

She shudders—out of disgust, desire, she honestly couldn’t say—and is momentarily grateful for how deeply Madame de Garderobe sleeps. Belle knows she can keep quiet enough that there’s no danger of waking her, but still feels her cheeks burn as she lets her hands slip beneath the sheets. Her fingers trail across her inner thigh and she’s surprised to find herself biting back a moan already; she’s aching to be touched, and spares only a moment’s hesitation before giving in to the urge.

Gasping a little at the first touch, she spreads her legs wider and thinks of broad shoulders, of blue eyes and that voice, that _growl;_ the latter coaxes a whimper from her throat as her fingers speed up of their own accord. She still can’t imagine his hands ( _paws_ , she reminds herself, then pushes the thought aside) on her, but she thinks of him watching her like this—the hesitation and desire at war in those impossibly human eyes—perhaps even her hand pressed to his chest, tangled in fur, feeling the muscles move underneath—

—making him moan in return, a rumbling noise that ends with him trying to catch his breath, desperate—

—all the wonder she sees in his gaze now magnified tenfold, leaving her feeling exposed, vulnerable, _beautiful_ in a way she’s never quite felt before, and the thought of that hunger is enough to set her over the edge, breath caught on a silent moan that leaves her panting quietly in the darkness.

She doesn’t have to remind herself that she’s his prisoner, that she’s not free (that even if she were, he’s not quite _human),_ but even she has to admit that there’s something there, unexpected and frankly somewhat terrifying but undeniable, and in this, at least, Belle has her freedom: to work through her uncertainty as she likes, leaving her accountable to only herself.

(So she tells herself as she shuts her eyes and curls a hand beneath her pillow, trying not to entertain questions of _if_ as she drifts into a fitful sleep—

—but when she arrives at the breakfast table the next morning, book under her arm, to find the Beast waiting, she feels her cheeks go hot and knows only that she’s more uncertain now than ever before.)  
  


* * *

  
The Beast sets Belle free, and it costs him his life—leaving _Adam_ in his place, a name that no longer feels like his own, a body he can’t quite remember how to use. (It doesn’t matter, at first—he sees the way Belle’s eyes light up as she recognizes his own, her hand gentle against his smooth cheek. Moments later her lips are on his and this, he thinks, is all that could possibly matter; that _this_ was worth every nightmarish moment of the past years.)

He stumbles ever so slightly on his first tentative steps after they break apart. Belle chuckles fondly and catches him ( _not for the first time_ , he thinks deliriously), grip tight on his waist. She appears to be marveling at his smaller stature, his slimmer frame; he catches her gaze and she flushes, suddenly shy, unsure of what to say. “It’s okay,” he tells her, arm coming up to pull her closer. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to it, too.”

He’s surprised at how true those words prove to be, for both of them. Over the next weeks, months, he catches himself overcompensating for weight or a tail that’s no longer there, being startled by the sound of his own voice, tripping over his own feet. Belle, for her part, handles his new appearance with remarkable grace, though there are times she’ll pause, distracted, running her hands over his shoulders, down his chest, and he knows she’s trying to reconcile Adam with her Beast. (She’s also fascinated by his hands; he watches her turn one over between her own as though stunned by the lack of fur—by the fact that it’s a hand at all, rather than a paw—and he laughs quietly, lifting her fingers to his lips and watching her smile in return.)

Dancing, oddly enough, is one skill he finds he hasn’t lost. He hesitates at first, convinced he’ll be a disaster (stepping on Belle’s toes, losing any sense of rhythm); still, her reassurance is enough to make him want to try. He holds Belle’s hands in his and is taken aback by how effortlessly they glide across the dance floor, just as in sync as they were during their first, the Beast’s last waltz.

It’s behind closed doors, after the parties have ended, that they start to test their rhythm in new areas, to get to know each other in all the ways they couldn’t before.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Iridescent-themed Aphrodite, deathless child of Zeus, wile-weaver, I now implore you_ —”

Belle hesitates in her recitation as Adam’s hand brushes her knee. It’s not a question, not yet, but she’s tempted to treat it as such, to draw him in and kiss him with a hunger he won’t be able to mistake for anything else. “Keep going,” he urges, unconsciously echoing the words on the tip of her tongue; then, with a smile, “I _implore_ you.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Belle says and Adam pauses, looking up at her, uncertain; she offers a teasing smile of her own and starts again, “ _Don’t—I beg you, Lady—with pains and torments crush down my spirit,_

 _But before if ever you’ve heard my pleadings_  
_Then return, as once when you left your father’s_  
_Golden house; you yoked to your shining car your_  
_Wing-whirring sparrows;_  
  
_Skimming down the paths of the sky’s bright ether_  
_On they brought you over the earth’s black bosom,_  
_Swiftly–then you stood with a sudden brilliance,_  
_Goddess, before me;_  
  
_Deathless face alight with your smile, you asked me_  
_What I suffered, who was my cause of anguish,_  
_What would ease the pain of my frantic mind, and_  
_Why had I called you_  
_To my side…”_

As she reads, Adam’s hand travels from her knee to her thigh and back again, teasing over her skirts; when she shifts and meets his eye, spreading her legs the slightest bit, he grins, taking it as the invitation it is.

He takes her hand, coaxing her out of her chair. They’re seated side by side in the library, the omnipresent pile of books stacked high on the table across from them; Adam pushes the books aside, careful not to topple their carefully arranged, rather precarious order. Belle understands immediately, color high in her cheeks as she lets Adam lift her (as effortless in this form as during their first dance) to perch on the edge of the table, book still open in her hands.

“Keep going,” Adam says again, breathless this time, “Until you can’t,” and gets to his knees, flashing her a smile so brilliantly wicked she would swear she sees fangs.

“‘ _And whom should Persuasion summon_  
_Here, to soothe the sting of your passion this time?_  
_Who is now abusing you, Sappho? Who is_  
_Treating you cruelly?’”_

Adam pushes up Belle’s skirts as she speaks, presses a kiss to each of her thighs and hooks his thumbs into her underwear, pulling it smoothly down her legs and casting it aside. She’s already wet, and his hand between her legs makes her stutter, voice catching on a gasp that becomes a bitten-back laugh. She keeps one hand on the book as she reaches out to cup the back of his neck with the other, pulling him precisely where she wants him—and never once does she stop reading.

“‘ _Now she runs away, but she’ll soon pursue you,’”_ and his fingers slip to her thighs, holding her in place with a strength she didn’t realize he still had; _“‘Gifts she now rejects—soon enough she’ll give them,_ ’” and his tongue parts her folds, licking from her entrance to her clit; there he lingers, taking it between his lips and teasing at it with the tip of his tongue until finally she has to pause, eyes falling shut and fingers tightening in his hair as she bites back a moan. When she starts again, her voice is shaking, and she can feel Adam’s smile against her cunt. “‘ _Now she doesn’t love you, but soon her heart will burn, though unwilling.’”_ At this she feels the barest whisper of teeth on her skin, drawing a whimper from the back of her throat; then his tongue is back, sinking inside, licking her open until her hips are arching off the table.

One of his hands falls away from her thigh, and it’s a moment before Belle realizes he’s reached down to palm himself through his trousers, cock aching in its confines; still he stays focused on her, never once letting up as he sinks his tongue into her again and again, pulling back only to curl the tip around her clit, rhythm building steadily in time with the pounding of Belle’s pulse.

“ _Come,_ ” she starts once more, and another involuntary giggle escapes. Adam’s head finally pulls back for the briefest of moments as he huffs out a breath of laughter, and Belle can feel the scratch of his stubble on her thighs as he leans back in. It sends a thrill through her—thinking of everything she had wanted, not wanted to want, _before_ , and their exchange at the ball (his _growl_ when she had asked him to grow a beard, and now to feel the testimony of his dedication against her skin, impossibly intimate)—it’s almost too much, and she finds her hand charting a course from the back of his head to his cheek, his chin, tracing the roughness with the tips of her fingers until a rumble ( _or perhaps a growl?_ she thinks from somewhere far away) rises in his throat, echoes through her fingers and her core, and she knows she’s close.

 _“Come to me once more,”_ she begins again, breathless, rushing now, “ _and abate my torment; take the bitter care from my mind, and give me—_ ” and the teeth are back, asking and promising all at once, soothed over by the flat of his tongue against her entrance, flicking against her clit. She feels herself start to fall apart, thighs trembling as pleasure courses through her body, but even still she attempts to continue:

“ _…and give me all I long for,_ ” until she can no longer speak, the book falling aside as she grips Adam’s hair in both hands, holding him precisely where she needs as she comes (falls apart, lets him put her back together), comes down.

She lies back on the table, out of breath, still shivering as Adam rises to his feet, tugging her skirts back down in some semblance of dignity. His lips, chin are shining, she notices in a daze, moisture clinging to that glorious stubble, and she sits up just enough to pull him down into a bruising kiss.

When they break apart, Adam inhales sharply, unsteadily, though the smile that dances over his lips doesn’t waver. “So,” he says, looking genuinely interested, “Is that all?” Belle tilts her head and he clarifies, “The poem. How does it end?”

Belle’s hands settle on his waist, fingers dipping lower as she murmurs, “It looks like there’s something else you could use some help with first.” She sees the flash of desire in his eyes at the offer, but his hands catch hers gently as he shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

This isn’t the first time, and Belle knows better than to question it. He _wants_ , but won’t always let himself _have_ —something to do with deprivation and self-control, with accounting for the excesses of his past in a way he never thought his present would allow. Belle wants to tell him that he’s suffered enough but is hesitant to test the waters, knowing her words would more than likely fall on deaf ears.

Instead she reaches for the book at her side, leafing through until she finds the page in question and finishes in a determinedly steady voice, “ _Lady, in all my battles, fight as my comrade._ ”

She chances a glance back up at Adam and the look in his eyes, impossibly full of love, promising her the world, steals her breath away. For once Belle is lost for words, and all she can think to do is set the book aside and step off the table, enveloping him in her arms, head on his chest, feeling every part of him as his arms come up to pull her even closer.

He’s not quite the same man she fell in love with; isn’t sure she could call that love, for all the hesitation that troubled her every waking moment. Still she sees in him more of a future than she could ever recognize before, and all the pieces of him, all the parts she’s seen and all those she has yet to realize, seem to be simply waiting to fall into place—with her empty spaces, with his own; every part of him she, and he, have yet to reconcile with the others.

Her prince.

Her Adam.

Her Beast.


End file.
